


Mourning the fallen

by Umi_no_arawashi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: AU - Thorin Lives, Battlefield, Drabble, M/M, Mourning, Post BotFA, Thranduil sings, one-sided Thorin/Thranduil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24845152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umi_no_arawashi/pseuds/Umi_no_arawashi
Summary: The battle has been fought, and now it is time to count the dead.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Thranduil
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	Mourning the fallen

The battle has been fought, and now it is time to count the dead. Each army has gathered their own, a bloody collection of broken bodies, and there is something mind-numbing about the repetition of grief, friends seeking out friends and finding them lifeless, with the same cries of grief, the same sobs, whether dwarf or man. 

The elves, though, mourn differently. 

They have brought their vast number of dead back in total silence. There has been no display of emotion, no weeping, no screaming at the sight of a beloved’s face. They have brought them back, and laid them down reverently in a large field, one of the few that miraculously survived untrampled from the battle. It lies fallow, its russet grass still punctuated by wild flowers, crocus and poppies bright with colour under the grey sky. 

Thorin has come to pay his respects to the elven dead, and Bilbo is with him. They walk, slowly, through the rows of the dead, towards the towering figure of Thranduil, who stands alone in the center of the field.

Bilbo tries not to look at the dead. The elves look almost too perfect, their skin still unmarred, their hair alive with colour, all the tints between brown and gold. With their eyes closed like that, they look as though they might wake up any second. Until you see their wounds, of course, and those somehow look even more hideous on those perfect bodies.

They reach the king, and stop. Thranduil does not greet them. He is busy.

Slowly, he walks from corpse to corpse. In front of each one, he stops and kneels and holds them tenderly to him, kisses their cold pale mouths and calls each by their name, with words Bilbo wishes he could understand, because it is clear that they are words of praise, of love.

It’s a long task. There are many dead. But the king’s sadness does not seem lessened by the repetition, he doesn’t move any faster. Every fallen warrior is held, and named, and mourned, and kissed, until the king’s skin is red with their blood and gore and his hair is sodden with it. 

It is the most unlikely thing Bilbo can imagine from the pristine Elvenking, always immaculate to the point of prissiness. It is savage and raw, like a great wound.

They stand a respectful distance away from him, and walk with him, and Bilbo thinks they are all paying their respects as well, in their own way. Bilbo thinks about death, how close his friends came to it, the loss that would have been. He tries to imagine what losing a friend could possibly mean to Thranduil, who has perhaps known some of these warriors for millennia, and his mind reels.

And then the task is over, and all the dead have been honoured. And Thranduil stands tall in front of his fallen warriors, facing his army, facing them, and Bilbo realises with a start that there are tears falling from the king’s face, mixing with the blood on his face.

And then the Elvenking does something Bilbo would not have expected from such a being.

He sings.

His voice is clear and strong and rich, deep and tuneful, but his song is heartbreaking in its sadness. The words are beyond Bilbo’s understanding but their meaning is clear. Loss and sadness resonate over the battlefield.

Bilbo feels Thorin take a step forwards, as though drawn by the sight. Bilbo looks at the dwarf’s face. Thorin is transfixed, and there are tears in his eyes as well.

“Is this what it takes to hear the Elf-king sing?” whispers Thorin under his breath.

Next to him, the prince, Legolas, nods. “Yes. This is what it takes to be taken in our King’s arms and be kissed by his lips. Apart from my mother, long ago, no one else has had this honour, though many amongst us have desired my Father’s touch.

Thorin’s eyes do not leave the king. The sun is setting, and he is bathed in red light now, and his song of grief reaches a climax, then falls, and stops. There is a hushed silence over the battlefield. Even the voices of the crows have stopped.

“Would he have mourned thus for me if I had fallen, I wonder?” says Thorin in a harsh whisper, as though choked by tears. “Would he have held me close to him?”

Legolas looks at him, startled. “Why?” he asks.

“It would be a fine reason to die,” says Thorin. “That is all.”


End file.
